worth the world
by viennacantabile
Summary: Twenty-six characters, two hot summer days, from A to Z.


Disclaimer: The Fab Five own what you recognize, **LCV Productions** owns what you don't.

Note: This is another case of "I have no idea why this got done so quickly." I had the idea for this late last night, wrote 'til I fell asleep, and maybe eighteen hours, countless playings of _The Man in the Iron Mask_ score, and endless viewings of Alexei Yagudin's 2002 Olympic gold routine later, here it is. I hope you enjoy it.

For: **HedgehogQuill** and **Megfly**, with much love.

—viennacantabile

* * *

worth the world

.

Lord, it is time. The summer was too long.  
Lay your shadow on the sundials now,  
and through the meadows let the winds throng.

Ask the last fruits to ripen on the vine;  
give them further two more summer days  
to bring about perfection and to raise  
the final sweetness in the heavy wine.

—Rainer Maria Rilke, "Autumn Day"

.

a : age

It's just a funeral, and at his age, Doc's greeted death so many times already that it should mean nothing to him, but even now it never gets any easier. It's just that they're both so _young_, he thinks helplessly, watching the first shovel of dirt trickle down Riff's still-rounded face. So very, very young that they never even had the chance to live.

And then he sees the dark-haired girl standing proud and alone by Tony's casket, face anguished and heartbroken but still utterly, impossibly beautiful.

Well, he thinks, no, that's not true, exactly. Tony lived. If only for two wonderful, joyous days—he lived. He found something worth dying for. And that, he supposes, as he says his goodbyes, is really all you can ask for. Two perfect, glorious days. The barest instant in the grand scheme of things. Hardly a blink in all of human history.

But for one boy and one girl, Doc thinks, a lifetime.

.

b : bliss

Riff never believed in heaven, remembers Graziella from the recesses of her bed the morning after, but maybe God will make an exception for Riff—funny, adorable Riff—oh, _Riff_—

"Please," she whispers raggedly into the cross necklace clutched tightly in her hand, offering up all the prayers missed over eighteen years in one fervent plea. She believes it will work because it has to. It has to. "Oh, please."

.

c : coy

"Don't play dumb with me, punk," barks Schrank in the wee hours of the morning, slamming a frustrated fist on the desk. "Three kids dead, an' I want answers!"

Goddard places a hand on his shoulder. "Lew."

Schrank isn't even looking at the shell-shocked boy in front of him anymore. He could be white, he could be black, he could be anything, but what he _is_ is a child. "Three kids dead," Schrank repeats quietly with unseeing, bloodshot eyes. "I want answers."

.

d : dawn

Anita waits alone on a curb for the sun to come up, for the world to start making sense again. She waits for the girl she was twelve hours ago, who believed anything and everything was possible, who loved and was loved by the handsomest boy in the world, who never knew the fire of hate and lust and pain all pushed into one moment spent teetering on the edge of the abyss. She waits for dawn, and the light that will never come.

"_Te adoro_, _mi amor_," she breathes into the darkness, into the last night she will ever share with him. "God go with you."

Morning is a long time coming, and when it does, all that was ever _Anita_ has already vanished.

.

e : end

The end is swift and smooth and so terribly quiet.

"Tony," she whispers, and he is gone.

.

f : fame

He always wanted to be famous, Chino thinks, his heart thudding crazily as the echo of the shot reverberates through the silent empty street, but he never thought it would be like this.

.

g : grin

He's almost smiling, almost laughing, because hell, if Chino wants to shoot him, why not let him do it? Make the little fucker's night and all, just let the bastard kill him like he killed the most beautiful girl in the world, the only thing he cared about, oh, God, _Maria_, you can't be dead, no, please. Please. I love you.

Come on, do it, he rages, half-sobbing, half-grinning, goddamn it, just pull the trigger so I can be with her again. And God, Chino must be close, death must be here, but it doesn't hurt at all; no, it's wonderful, because there—right there—is _Maria_—

.

h : hell

As she flees into the night and as far away from the Jets as she can get, Anybodys feels like she's burning, gasping, aching in an awful world where nothing makes sense, where angels are demons and heaven is hell and everything you thought you ever knew is a lie. We're just the same, she thinks bleakly, only you, you're braver than me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

Try as she might, she can't get Anita's tear-streaked face out of her mind.

.

i : inn

Sorry, _señorita_, thinks Action as he faces the Puerto Rican girl defiantly, ain't no room in the inn for your kind around here. Beat it.

(He thinks he won't regret it, because the thing is: miracles don't happen on West Side. Not to them. And not to him.)

.

j : jail

Baby John runs from street to street looking for Tony. He cries horrible, messy tears and wipes his face on his sleeve because Jets aren't supposed to cry, but what else are you supposed to do when you're a kid who owns just a little piece of street and bleeds for his gang and your only options are jail or the business end of a knife? He is scared stiff of going to prison. "They eat skinny little runts like you for breakfast in there," he's heard Schrank sneer more than once, and even though A-Rab keeps telling him everything Schrank dishes out is complete crap, Baby John actually believes this.

Oh, he's scared all right. But in there, away from all of this, away from the idea of Riff and Bernardo lying facedown and still on the cement, away from the blood that is stalking them now, he would be safe. He can handle some lowlifes, he decides, but there are a few things even a Jet can't fight and death is one of them.

It's sad, he thinks, heart twisting, because once upon a time he thought he was going places.

He almost runs into a car, but he forgets about this when he finds out that Tony is safe and sound right below Doc's. No, he thinks, relieved, the Jets wouldn't let one of their own down. The Jets are for life. My life.

He just hopes that won't turn out to have been the price of admission, because he'd take jail any day over the great beyond.

.

k : knight

Velma puts all her faith into the boy she loves most in the world because she can't do anything else but trust that he will make it all right. That he will lead them through this nightmare, that he will know what to do, that he will rescue them all from this horrible shadow of death. My knight in shining armor, she qualifies, and there in the concrete tomb of a garage he comes through and guides them back into sanity by the sheer force of his will. Everything will be okay, he says, and they believe him.

But she is the princess and she knows that in her tower just moments ago, her knight in shining armor was only a little boy lying lost and shattered and heartbroken in her arms. Save me, he begged her, and Velma did, does, will do everything she can but she knows the truth: you can't save people. You can only love them.

.

l : lay

He is the last to flee the wire-caged battleground and escape into the starless night, but for once in his life, Mouthpiece takes one final glance back, sees those two still bodies and understands it all in a moment.

.

m : mum

Tiger is strong, but the sonofabitch he's holding is stronger, and for one second, he loses Tony's arm. It's enough; Tony breaks away from Ice, too, and then he drags Riff away and Riff is just like Tony, he gets away, too, except this time when Riff runs back he meets Bernardo's knife—

Tiger can't speak, can't hear, can't move, can't do anything but watch Riff turn and collapse on the pavement, his blood red and shining on that goddamn knife.

And then Tony is charging and Bernardo is gasping like a fish on a hook and then chaos is upon them. Tiger is punching away at his Shark, and the Puerto Rican is screaming abuse at him, but Tiger doesn't open his mouth, doesn't say a word, because he's afraid if he speaks he will tell the truth: I did it. I let him get away. It was my fault.

No one was supposed to get killed, he thinks, bewildered and scared and lost, and for Tiger, everything else fades out but those seven words: _no one was supposed to get killed_.

.

n : now

Tonight is when it happens, thinks Joyboy, slamming his fist into his open palm with rhythmic force, over and over again, as he stalks the alleys with the rest of the Jets. Tonight is the night everything goes down. Tonight is the night Ice takes Bernardo and they beat the Sharks once and for all. Tonight is the night they show everyone who never believed in them that they mean something, that the Jets own the streets. The Jets own the night. The Jets own the universe, and anyone who thinks otherwise is dead wrong.

And then they get to the crack of space under the highway and Joyboy, muscles tense and coiled, watches as Ice and the Shark square off and move toward each other but they haven't even thrown the first punch before Tony is there and everything is moving at the speed of lightning and suddenly it's not tonight anymore. It is now.

He never knew before, thinks Joyboy, catching Riff's jacket, but that one small word makes all the difference in the world.

.

o : oops

It's a complete accident, marvels Juano as the Sharks move back through the night to their side of the world, a complete and total accident that the rumble should turn into a fair fight. How in the world has it happened? He is not sure, not totally, but he can't help but be a little grateful to the stupid _Americano_ who danced with Bernardo's sister. Juano has never been a good fighter, and even though every time he goes out with his Sharks he tells his mother and his sisters that nothing will happen, he has always been scared that one day, he won't come back. Because both the Sharks and the Jets are deadly serious about this war, and sometimes Juano wonders if maybe it would be easier if he left.

He knows he won't, though. Without the Sharks he is easy pickings for anyone who shows up and sees the color of his skin and the youth in his face. Without the Sharks, he is nobody. With the Sharks…

Juano stands a little straighter and walks a little taller. He is a Shark. He is not afraid of anything in the world.

(But secretly he breathes a sigh of relief: of all the things he has to worry about, the fear that someone will die tomorrow night is not one of them. Not this time. A happy accident, he thinks. A reprieve. _Gracias a Dios_.)

.

p : pen

No, Schrank has never actually put him in the pen—he's too good at well, snowing the cops—but Snowboy has had his share of run-ins with coppers like him and judges and psychiatrists and social workers. And doctors. Way too many of those. Enough for a lifetime.

The thing is, thinks Snowboy as the other Jets kid around (but not really), they all say different stuff that ends up meaning the exact same thing, anyway: you're trouble, kid. Plain and simple. You're a headache and we don't want you on our hands. Next. This is the line that every single one of them knows by heart. This is how adults tell kids _we don't care_. And this, thinks Snowboy, is why the Jets are so goddamn important. They're trapped, all of them, and the idea of the Jets is the only thing that tells them they have a family, that they belong somewhere. We'll take you, say the Jets, even if no one else in the world will. You're special. You're one of us.

It's a real high, that feeling. Almost like flying. Almost like being free.

For that, thinks Snowboy, he'd happily risk the world.

.

q : queer

It's a little bit funny, thinks Rosalia as she combs out her hair and sits dreamily at her window, but she could swear she hears voices outside. It sounds so nice, she thinks longingly, all she is hearing about worlds and stars and suns and moons all over the place. So lovely. Just like a fairytale.

She laughs a little bit. Maybe it's true, what they all say about her, she reflects ruefully. Maybe she _is_ a bit silly. Stupid, even. Certainly Rosalia knows she's not smart.

But that's all right, she decides. After all, that's the beauty of America, the wonderful thing Indio and Luis don't seem to understand. You can be anybody you want in America, no matter who you are. You can be rich, poor, young, old, white, black, anything you could ever dream of.

And she does dream, thinks Rosalia with a small smile, even if it's a little bit silly.

.

r : rich

Rich, Bernardo thinks scornfully, you will all be rich. That is what they all said back in Puerto Rico, but what they didn't know is that America isn't the Promised Land, it's the land of Not Good Enough and You Don't Belong and Get Out Of Here. America doesn't hold her arms out; America stands back and judges your skin and says you are too dark, too different to pass.

Still, though, he thinks as Anita kicks and spins and shows him just what living in this godforsaken Promised Land is really all about, even after all this time, he can't help but hope. Not for fabulous wealth; even though Bernardo still wants to make it in this world, that's not what he's after anymore. What he wants is for America to look him straight in the eye and admit it: he is a man, and he is just as good as any one of them. Any day, any place, any time.

He's pretty sure this is never going to happen. There is too much between him and the idea of America, and by now Bernardo knows better than to expect all his dreams to come true. Nightmares, yes. Dreams, no.

But still there's the slightest bit of hope left in him. Even though he would never admit it. We are America now, he thinks as Anita's skirts whirl, and someday they will see it. Someday.

.

s : sky

When Ice looks at Velma, he feels like he can reach out and hold the sun and the moon and the stars and the whole of the night sky in the palm of his hand. She's that incredible, that goddamn amazing, and Ice can't believe a girl like her is with a guy like him. Which is why it's so hard to say no when they're leaving the playground after the dance and they reach the street and she looks up at him with those hypnotic blue eyes and smiles.

"My place?" she asks, indicating the right-hand direction, and though she has already asked this question not too long ago he has never wanted to say _yes_ so much in his life.

Instead he just leans down and kisses her. "Later."

"Later is a long time," she murmurs.

And oh, God, he knows it is. But Ice has two things that he cares about: his girl, and the Jets. Both of them need him, but right now, it's the Jets' turn.

Some part of him wonders how long he can keep this up, how long he can have it both ways. How long Velma will wait. He's not ready to leave the Jets—honestly, he doubts he'll ever be—but there's no way in hell he could ever let Velma go, either. There is no easy solution here, but then, there never is. Not when it's real life. Sooner or later, something will happen, Ice knows, and he will have to choose. He will have to decide. And he has no clue what he will do.

But right now, under the stars sprinkled all over the sky tonight, Ice feels like he can do anything. He's happy, really happy, and even if it only lasts for this one night, he has the two things he loves most in the world. That is all he needs.

He wraps his arm around her as they take the left turn, the way that will take them back to Doc's and the Jets, and leave the right turn behind. "I'll be there," he says, "just wait."

She sighs. "You know I always do."

.

t : toy

Luis backs away, terrified, as Thalia rushes over, hell in her face. She opens her mouth and he cringes, expecting the mother of all lectures to come out of her mouth. What she does, though, is even worse.

The dark-haired Shark girl bursts into floods of tears. "_Luis_!" she wails. "I thought you _liked_ me! How could you, how could you?"

Luis is absolutely flabbergasted. "But I do like you!" he assures her helplessly. "What—what did I do?"

"You cannot just take me to this dance and then leave me all alone so you can dance with _two_ other girls!" she cries stormily. "You—how can you just play with my heart like that, Luis? I thought you were so _nice_!"

"But—I didn't," he protests, bewildered. "I do not know what you are talking about!"

"Oh, you are a heartless, horrible boy!" sobs Thalia, dropping her head in her hands and fleeing.

Luis stares, open-mouthed, after her. "What did I do?" he asks the empty space around him.

Rosalia appears out of nowhere, panting slightly and adjusting her dress. Indio follows her, looking disgruntled. "Do not worry, Luis, I will smooth it all over," she promises, chasing after the girl. "Just stay right there!"

Luis looks at Indio. And Indio looks at Luis and rolls his eyes.

"_Est__ú__pido_," the Shark third-in-command grunts, and stalks off.

Luis furrows his brow, at a loss for words. Then he smiles. He will go talk to Bernardo, he decides, feeling better at the thought of the Shark leader. He will know what to do.

And if Luis feels happier about this than he perhaps should, well: there's no harm in it, after all. No harm at all.

.

u : urge

Gee-Tar doesn't _really_ want to dance with Velma, though it's not because Ice's girl is a horseface or anything. Actually, if he had to tell the truth, he'd say she's really pretty. Except he wouldn't, because he kind of likes having all his major organs in place and Ice is the kind of guy to rip you limb from limb for less. No, it's just that there's a slower dance coming up and it is so hard to be really romantic when a girl doesn't ever let you kiss her or hold her or anything, and Gee-Tar wants to be romantic with Clarice, he really does. He wants to sweep her off her feet. The problem is, though, he thinks with a frown, that everything always gets in the way when he tries.

Like now. It's so hard not to grab Clarice's hand back as it slips out of his own and she runs off, probably to the bathroom or something. But Gee-Tar, if nothing else, is a gentleman, so he turns back to Velma and smiles at her. After all, she doesn't know she's just spoiled the beginnings of a promising moment.

This is a nice dance, he thinks regretfully, and Velma really is very pretty. Maybe if he doesn't look too closely, he can pretend she's Clarice…

Velma smiles at him and the lights glint off her blond hair and ice-blue dress, and Gee-Tar sighs. Easier said than done.

.

v : vie

Big Deal watches Gee-Tar dance with Clarice—_his_ girl, even if Gee-Tar doesn't know it—with growing annoyance. He wishes he could just beat the hell out of him and be done with it, but no, Riff says no, and Big Deal has to do what his leader says. Which is share. Even though that's the last thing he feels like doing on a night like tonight when Clarice looks so goddamn beautiful.

There's no help for it, though. So instead, Big Deal concentrates on showing the Sharks who's boss around here. The Jets aren't about to concede anything to the Sharks, even if it's something like _dancing_. It's our turf, he thinks, our territory, and you aren't coming in and acting like it ain't. He dances hard and fast and even though he has to do it with Pauline (oh dear Lord) instead of the girl of his dreams, he's doing it for the Jets and that makes it all—well, if not okay, a little better. If he can't clobber Gee-Tar, at least he can clobber the Sharks. Metaphorically and literally, too, probably, he figures, remembering that Riff is going to set up a war-council tonight. In any case, though, it's another opportunity to prove that the Jets are better than the Sharks, the villains end up in the clink, and the good guys always, always win.

Which, Big Deal thinks disdainfully, eyeing his sorry excuse for competition, is something Gee-Tar should keep in mind.

.

w : wine

Murray Benowitz doesn't drink, but he's never been so tempted to swig the punch he knows is spiked in his life. He wipes his forehead nervously with his handkerchief. These kids, he thinks, will be the death of me. Why in the world is it so hard to get along? he wonders. He knows these kids really aren't so bad, that if he could just figure out the right approach, they could all end up the best of friends. They like the same things, after all: fighting, working up a sweat on the dance floor, annoying the cops. He was close for a minute with the get-together dance. He was. And he knows that there's got to be some way to bring them together. There has to be.

He tells this theory, among others, to Krupke, Goddard, and Schrank, but all they do is laugh at him.

"Ya wide-eyed sap," Schrank tells him, shaking his head derisively. "I guess ya also think the Commies aren't really out to get us an' the government ain't fulla spies."

The social worker shrugs helplessly. All he knows is he believes in these kids, even if he's not exactly sure why.

"Here," offers Krupke, "have a drink."

He shakes his head no. He may be an idealist, but he will hold onto his principles for at least a little while longer. Maybe he'll fail, he admits, but at least if he does, he won't be another Schrank, bitter and hateful and burned out on life. That's a promise.

.

x : x

Loco thinks for the smallest moment, as the other short, stocky boy approaches, that maybe he means it. Maybe he does want to shake hands, put the past behind him. And Loco wouldn't mind, really. He would be all right with that. So he puts his own hand out and gives the Jet a guarded, questioning look. Maybe. Maybe this could happen.

He doesn't wait long. The Jet pushes him back and onto the concrete and Loco feels so stupid for thinking that maybe, possibly, this could have happened. After all, this is a game, and they both know the rules. Your move is controlled by your opponent's move, and no one is putting down his fists first. No one. _Madre de Dios_, what a fool he is.

He is so angry with himself that he doesn't think at all, just _spits_ with all his might, because that, _Señor_ Jet, is what Loco thinks of _you_. And then Indio rushes over and now he feels like himself again, because he is with his friends, his brothers. Who needs them, anyhow? Loco thinks disgustedly. Who needs them, when he's got the Sharks?

Not Loco. And that's not about to change anytime soon.

.

y : you

A-Rab tosses the orange in his hands and smirks at Bernardo and his two sidekicks. This is when being a Jet is really, truly fun, when they walk around the streets of West Side knowing they are untouchable, that nothing and no one can hurt them. Not even those lousy, low-down PRs, because when you've got your buddies at your back, you've got the world.

He can't stop grinning as he shows the Sharks exactly where to shove it. Go to hell, he laughs soundlessly. You. Yeah, you. This is our town. The one little thing on this earth that we own.

So beat it.

.

z : zest

As much as Riff claims the night as his own, he loves waking up, loves seeing the sun stretch out over a whole new day of possibility. The whole world is there for the taking, and Riff knows that today it is his. All his.

But no, he thinks suddenly, that's wrong. Because even though Riff hasn't ever had a real, picket-fence family with two and a half kids, a mother and father, and a dog, he's not alone at all. After all, he's got Tony, and Ice, and Action, and the rest of the guys, even the little ones. And Graziella. So not all his, not really. Ours, he corrects himself contentedly, remembering his Jets, his buddies, no—his _family_—as he tears through the wakening streets and fire escapes of West Side. He is so eager to meet this day and all it holds that he can't stop running straight into the sunlight. Ours.

.

.end.

* * *

And so here we are, twenty-six characters later, including more than a few I've never featured before. Like Glad Hand, whose name is taken from the sometimes useful, sometimes awful novelization by Irving Shulman. The A-Z prompt is from the A to Z prompts community on Livejournal. Again, I really hope you got something—anything, really—out of this. :)

—viennacantabile


End file.
